by Mari Carr
Fiery Surrender
Trinity Masters, book 11
Mari Carr
Lila Dubois
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
About the Authors
Chapter One
Langston set the note—handwritten in elegant script on heavy cream-colored paper—on his brother’s desk. “I think I’m getting married.”
Oscar rolled his chair back half an inch, as if the letter were dangerous. “I told you not to join the cult.”
“It’s not a cult.” Langston looked at his brother. Oscar was his physical mirror image, except that Oscar was usually peering at a screen or frowning, while Langston preferred smiling and blowing things up. Today, Oscar was wearing a plain white T-shirt, sweats, and his feet were bare, while Langston had on beat-up jeans and a flannel shirt since, until he’d gotten this letter, he’d been in his barn-turned-workshop, assembling a second Tesla coil. If he had two, he could make a canopy of lightning, and that was going to be so fucking cool.
“It’s a cult. First they got Sylvia, now they have you.”
“Sylvia is in a different cult.”
“Ha, you admit it’s a cult,” Oscar grumped. He scooted closer and looked at the letter, curiosity apparently getting the better of him.
“At least it’s a cult where I stay at home.” That statement was more revealing than Langston had intended it to be, and he stared at the letter, ignoring the way his brother was looking at him.
The past year had been…interesting, to say the least. Langston liked excitement, liked danger, as long as he was in control of it. Bombs were controlled chaos—more precisely, chaos he controlled.
And he was close to his siblings. Always had been.
Then his sister had met and fallen in love with not one but two men, who turned out to be members of some weird European-based secret society. Hot on the heels of that revelation was that there was also an equally weird U.S.-based secret society. Sylvia had followed the men she’d fallen in love with, moving to England with Lancelot and Hugo and joining the Masters’ Admiralty.
“Missing Sylvie?” Oscar asked quietly.
“And Walt.”
Walt was their other triplet. For a long time, Walt had been the only one who’d left, first for medical school, then traveling the world saving people. Langston, Oscar, and Sylvia had all stayed close to home, Sylvia in their grandmother’s house in Charleston, while he and Oscar had their own houses, plus his workshop, behind their childhood home in the South Carolina countryside.
Now Sylvia was gone too, and while Langston had done his share of traveling, especially in the past month, he always came home.
“Why the hell did you join?” Oscar sighed.
Langston didn’t answer. They’d had this conversation before, and though Langston was close to his brother, closer than anyone who wasn’t a multiple could ever understand, he’d always deflected when answering. Usually he grinned and said he’d joined the Trinity Masters so he could have two wives.
And now, despite being a member for only a few months, it looked like he was about to get married.
Langston,
You are hereby summoned to the medallion room one week from today. Plan to remain in Boston for seven days.
Sincerely,
The Grand Master
“It doesn’t say anything about getting married,” Oscar pointed out.
“The medallion room is where the altar is.”
“How do you know that?”
“Seb told me about it on the way to Guam.”
“Oh, right, your new travel buddy Sebastian.” Oscar rolled his eyes, then looked back at the letter. “The medallion room is in the Trinity Masters’ secret headquarters under the Boston Public Library?”
“Yes.” Langston pursed his lips. “I probably shouldn’t have told you all this, but you’ll end up joining, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“I will not,” Oscar snapped.
Langston grinned. “You will.”
“Not.”
“Will.”
“Not.”
“Bet?” Langston asked.
Oscar glared. “I hope this altar is a sacrificial one.”
“I think they can only sacrifice virgins. So you might be in danger, but I’m not.” Langston grinned as Oscar’s eye started to twitch.
His brother opened his mouth to snap out a retort, then closed it and looked at him. “You’re worried.”
And this was the shitty part about having two brothers with whom he’d once shared a womb. They knew him, could read him, too well.
“I’m not worried. I’m…puzzled,” Langston said.
Oscar reached out a long arm and grabbed another chair from one of the secondary workstations in his massive office, dragging it over.
Langston plopped down, picking up the letter. He rubbed his thumb over the paper.
“Not puzzled,” Oscar said. “Try again.”
“I’m not good with words. That’s Sylvia’s thing.”
“Want me to get you a dictionary?”
“I’m…displeased.”
“Holy shit.” Oscar sat forward, peering at him. “You’re pissed.”
Langston planted his hand on his brother’s face and pushed him back. “I’m not pissed. I’m the easygoing one.”
“Which is why it’s amazing that you’re pissed. Why are you pissed? Regretting your decision to join the cult?”
“Nope.” The Trinity Masters was a society older than the country itself. Created in secret by the same men and women who founded the nation, the organization was both an incubator for brilliant minds—be they scientists, philosophers, or artists—and a safety net that protected and supported members.
He’d joined because with the support of the Trinity Masters, all it would take was one phone call and a day later, he could be sitting down with someone from an EOD—Explosive Ordnance Disposal—unit and showing them his new bomb defusion device and protective suit—though he had to finish them first.
Walt was definitely leaning toward joining as well because he and Oscar had been doing some inventing of their own—battlefield medical tech that the Trinity Masters could ensure got to the troops who needed it.
It was the kind of access boys from South Carolina would never have on their own.
But none of that had happened yet. Langston hadn’t asked for a meeting or R&D support because he wasn’t ready. Just as he wasn’t ready to get married. The Trinity Masters, and Grand Master Juliette Adams, should have waited before forcing him into this marriage.
“You knew you’d have an arranged marriage. Knew you wouldn’t get to pick who or when,” Oscar pointed out in that annoying way of siblings.
“I know. Franco gave me the basics on the rules, but Seb told me most people don’t get called to the altar for
years, not until their mid-thirties at the earliest, so they have time to become established in their fields. This is too fast. Too soon.”
“So that’s why you’re pissed.”
“I think…I think she’s doing it because she’s worried I’ll join Sylvia.” At the same time he’d met Juliette, he’d also met Eric, the leader of the Masters’ Admiralty. He and his brothers had been offered membership to both societies.
“She might be, but wouldn’t that get you into a fuck-ton of trouble? I mean, you already joined the Trinity Masters. Can you defect?”
“Fuck if I know. This is all too new. But it feels like she doesn’t trust me.”
“Trust you? She barely knows you.”
Langston snorted out a miserable laugh, tossing the letter onto the desk. Oscar was right. Juliette barely knew him, and yet she’d apparently picked out two people he was meant to spend the rest of his life with. What the hell had she based that decision on?
“So are you going to go?” Oscar asked.
“I have to. I joined, and that means if the Grand Master—”
“Says jump, you ask ‘how high?’”
“—summons me, I have to go.” Langston made a face at Oscar, then stood. “But I’m going to talk to her about this. I don’t want her marrying me off just because she doesn’t trust me.”
“What if your wives are really hot?”
“Don’t be so shallow. I’m not in it for hot wives.”
“You are definitely in it for hot wives.”
“That’s just a bonus. And what she’s doing isn’t fair to my hot wives either.”
“Well, then by all means, go and save two unsuspecting women from the horror of marrying you.”
“Fuck off.” Langston reached out to try to smack Oscar upside the head.
His brother dodged, then grinned before sobering. “You’re going? For sure?”
“Yes.” He was going to explain to Juliette that she could trust him, that she didn’t need to force him to get married in order to make sure he stayed. “I’m going to Boston.”
Langston paced the small changing room, cursing. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused. The long, hooded black cloak was ridiculous. When he’d arrived in Boston, a note—on the same thick paper as the one he’d gotten back home—had been waiting in his hotel room with instructions. He’d ignored it, planning to go to the headquarters, find Juliette, and talk to her. To that end, he’d arrived early, hours earlier than the time listed in his instructions.
He’d stepped out of the hidden elevator into the grand entrance hallway, a mammoth, imposing foyer hidden deep underground, and then headed for Juliette’s office. He’d been there once before, with Sebastian, when they’d come back from Guam and he’d been initiated into the society. He had a good sense of direction and spatial awareness, so he’d been sure he’d be able to find it again.
He hadn’t. It was as if the door they’d used no longer existed, and he was reminded of the shifting staircases in Harry Potter.
He’d explored a huge cave-like ballroom, sure there’d been a door off here, but he hadn’t been able to find anything. He’d backtracked to the entrance hall. Again, no doors. Then he’d explored the short halls, which contained changing rooms and many locked doors.
Irritated, he’d re-read the letter with the instructions, then stomped back into the elevator. He’d exited the elevator into the small closet off the rare books room. The panel that hid the elevator door slid back into place, blending in with the other paneled walls. He turned in place, examining the small closet. If someone wandered in, it would look like an underutilized storage closet, with shelves only on one wall and an empty library cart taking up a chunk of floor space.
He’d checked to make sure the door was firmly closed, concealing him from anyone who might be wandering, peering at the rare books, which were kept behind glass in a series of small rooms. The lone circulation desk in this area of the library was in a different room, so as long as he didn’t start cursing loudly, he’d maintain the organization’s secrecy.
Pulling the note from the hotel out of his pocket, he checked the instructions, which he’d mostly ignored, and then turned to the wall on his left. Now that he was looking, he could see that the paneling on this wall looked more like a patchwork, each square etched with a number. He pressed on “30” and, with a click, the small box popped out of the paneling.
“Okay, that’s cool.” He looked inside and removed a key. “Now this is some secret society cloak-and-dagger shit.”
Another secret elevator ride down to the headquarters, and he’d followed the instructions in the letter to a small room off the branching halls at the end of the grand entrance.
That key had unlocked a door labeled “A” that opened to a private dressing room.
A door that had locked behind him, leaving him trapped in here.
The well-appointed room had a second door, opposite the first, but that had been locked too. He’d spent half an hour trying to break out before a note had been slipped under the mysterious second door.
Stop.
Succinct and irritating.
He’d found a pen in the drawer of the small vanity and scribbled a reply—a demand to speak with Juliette before a mistake was made—and he shoved the note back under the door.
That had been hours ago. There’d been no reply.
He thought he’d heard the sound of other doors opening and closing, but he couldn’t be sure.
With each minute that passed, his irritation rose, as did a fluttery, panicky feeling. He’d gone back to the letter with instructions, putting on the black velvet robe—which made him look like a posh Sith lord—just so he’d have something to do.
Nothing he’d planned to accomplish had come to pass.
A bell rang.
Fuck.
This couldn’t be good.
There was the snick of a lock and he lunged for the inner door. This time when he twisted, the knob yielded and the door opened. He practically ran out of the dressing room.
Langston halted two steps inside the medallion room.
This was some next-level secret society shit. Light shone down on the center of the room, focused on the bronze medallion of the Trinity Masters’ triquetra in the floor. Around it were three high-back chairs. Two of the chairs were already claimed by people wearing the same long robes and hoods as him—one white robe, one black robe.
Langston studied his own black robe.
Ah, fuck no.
He glanced around, hoping—praying—to see Juliette. If he could just get to her before she did something they were both going to regret, maybe—
“Sit down,” came a deep voice from a dark corner of the room.
Langston stared hard in the direction it had come from, trying to see who had spoken, but the outer walls of the room were cast in complete darkness.
Langston took a deep breath. “I need to speak to Jul—er—the Grand Master,” he called out.
He heard the slight intake of breath from the woman—it was obvious from the slight figure, the person in the white robe was a female.
Then he heard a sound that sent his hackles up. The other man in the room, in the black robe, sighed loudly, making it perfectly clear he was exasperated.
Langston shot the man a dirty look, then realized the stupid hood was hiding his features. Pushing the hood off his own head, he glared at the man. “You got a problem?”
Langston had grown up with two brothers who were exactly the same age and same size. Langston wasn’t afraid to mix it up, either with his brothers or with random condescending assholes.
The man, who was still seated, shook his head slowly.
Without the benefit of seeing the man’s face, Langston had no way of knowing if he’d intimidated the guy or if the fucker was still acting holier than thou.
He clenched his fists.
“Sit down, Langston.”
This time, the directive came from a female. H
e glanced across the room and watched another hooded figure walk into the beam of light.
Juliette.
Langston had met the Grand Master of the Trinity Masters a handful of times in what he had come to understand were unusual circumstances, but, even without the benefit of seeing her face, he would recognize her voice and her confident poise.
“Jul—Grand Master,” he started. “I need to speak to you.”
Juliette shook her head. “No. You don’t. I realize that you are new to our so—”
“That’s what I’m trying to say,” he interjected, perfectly aware that the robed man and woman on either side of him were giving off appalled vibes. Was he not allowed to interrupt the Grand Master? He fought not to roll his eyes. Some of these society members took the whole formality bullshit a little too far.
“Langston. I’m only going to tell you one more time. Sit. Down.”
He sucked in an angry breath. Oscar had hit the nail on the head. He wasn’t just displeased. He was fucking pissed off. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. Dammit. All he wanted to do was talk to Juliette, to tell her that she could trust him, that she didn’t have to marry him off one hot minute after he’d joined this secret society to keep him in place.
He didn’t plan to go anywhere.
He had stuff to do, real, meaningful things he could accomplish that could effect the sort of change the Trinity Masters wanted, that they stood for. But if she wasn’t going to give him a chance to prove himself, if she wasn’t going to give him the time he needed…well then, fuck her and fuck the horse she rode in on.
“I’m not doing this,” he said through gritted teeth.
